How to Date a Flying Mexican: New and Collected Stories

By Daniel A. Olivas

How to Date a Flying Mexican is a collection of stories derived from Chicano and Mexican culture but ranging through fascinating literary worlds of magical realism, fairy tales, fables, and dystopian futures. Many of Daniel A. Olivas’s characters confront—both directly and obliquely— questions of morality, justice, and self-determination.

The collection is made up of Olivas’s favorite previously published stories, along with two new stories—one dystopian and the other magical— that challenge the Trump administration’s anti-immigration rhetoric and policies. How to Date a Flying Mexican draws together some of Olivas’s most unforgettable and strange tales, allowing readers to experience his very distinct, and very Chicano, fiction.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: University of Nevada Press
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781647790370

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

AS I WRITE THIS, we are in the tenth month of sheltering in place while the pandemic wreaks havoc on our country. We also nervously await the inauguration of a new president as our nation’s Capitol is militarized in anticipation of further acts of insurrection.

And I am still mourning the passing of my father, Michael Augustine Olivas, who was called back on September 23, 2020, after a long illness. The son of Mexican immigrants, my father had dreamed of publishing his fiction and poetry, but to no avail. He destroyed all of his writings and got on with his life of being a loving husband and father of five children. Though he never explained to me why he took such permanent drastic action, I suspect the rejection was just too much for my father, and he decided to snuff out all physical evidence of his literary dreams. But he took great pleasure in the fact that I became a published author, and my last visits with him were filled with joyous discussions about books and my latest literary projects.

I am also a person with two lives. On the one hand, in my day job as a senior attorney with the California Department of Justice, I supervise a team of just under fifty attorneys and paralegals in the areas of land use, environmental enforcement, and affordable housing. My days are filled with video meetings, phone calls, memoranda, legal briefs, and assorted correspondence—all while I sit at our kitchen island as my wife also teleworks and supervises a team of administrative law judges from our home study. I work with committed, brilliant professionals who have kept it together despite being forced to work from home, sometimes with young children to care for and educate while juggling a demanding legal practice. And some of this legal work involves fighting the Trump administration’s policies targeting our immigrant communities with regard to basic needs such as housing. So in terms of my day job, my plate is full, as they say.

In my other life, I write fiction, poetry, essays, author interviews, and plays. And after almost twenty-five years of writing short stories of various genres, I realized that many—though not all—of my narratives fell within the world of magic, fairy tales, fables, and dystopian futures. A few months ago, I decided to read through my published stories and select some of my favorite, more curious tales. Our strange times seemed to call for it. In compiling the stories that make up this volume, I noticed that many of them confronted—either directly or obliquely—questions of morality, justice, and self-determination while being deeply steeped in Chicano and Mexican culture. A few of my tales simply focused on the way that we, as people, often hurt those we love for reasons that are as cruel as they are confounding. And the final two stories in this collection represent my newest pieces, written in 2019, both of which confront Trump’s anti-immigrant rhetoric and policies; in one, I utilize a dystopian narrative that now seems a bit too close to reality, while the other is imbued with magical realism.

As I reread my stories and assembled this collection, I found myself falling back into memories of writing these tales throughout the last quarter century. Our son was quite young when I wrote many of these stories, and as he matured and became more sophisticated, I would like to think my storytelling abilities did so as well.

I also pondered a question that I have explored in my dozens of published interviews with other authors: Why do I write? While many of the authors I have interviewed throughout the years eloquently explained what inspired them to become writers, I truly do not know why I must write. I do know that I attempt to express the beauty and complexities of my culture rooted in Mexico, the home of my grandparents. Moreover, inaccurate depictions of my culture are too common, and I believe I have a moral duty to correct those depictions through my own storytelling.

You could say that when I write, I am making a political statement because I am adding my voice—my very Chicano voice—to the artistic conversation of our country. I think this inherently political element is inevitable for all writers who come from marginalized communities. And I know that my parents encouraged my siblings and me to express pride in our culture in whatever form we felt appropriate.

Why did I choose How to Date a Flying Mexican as the title story? Two reasons. First, of all the stories I have read to audiences throughout the years, that is the one that has received the strongest response: in the form of laughter but also recognition of the cultural touchstones that it describes. Second, it was one of my late father’s favorite stories of mine. The title alone made him laugh—a laugh I miss more and more each day.

My father was a proud Chicano who—along with my mother—made certain his children were exposed to Mexican art, literature, and culture. And this collection is imbued with that cultural pride. In one of my last conversations with my father, I told him I was working on this manuscript and that I had chosen his favorite piece as the title story. He smiled. He approved. A son could not ask for more.

If you have read most of these stories before, I hope you enjoy them again. And if my stories are new to you, let me say: Welcome to my strange little world.

HOW TO DATE A FLYING MEXICAN

Rule 1 ~ Don’t Tell Anyone About the Flying Part

AFTER THE SECOND NIGHT Conchita witnessed Moisés flying in his backyard under the moonlight, and after the first night they shared her bed (which happened to be the second night she witnessed him flying in his backyard under the moonlight), she realized that no one, not even her sister Julieta, could learn of her new novio’s extraordinary talent. What would people think? Certainly gossip would spread throughout the neighborhood, eventually migrating south out of Los Angeles and down below the border to Conchita’s hometown of Ocotlán via whispered phone calls, wisecracking emails, and even terse though revealing postcards. Yes, the chisme would most certainly creep out of the city limits, inexorably spreading like a noxious fog, finally reaching all of her friends and family, who would shake their collective head about poor Conchita Lozano de la Peña finally going loca. And, of course they would proclaim, such madness involved lust. See what happens when you don’t settle down like all good Catholic Mexican women and marry a man who can give you children and something to look forward to in old age! No God-fearing woman should enter her sixth decade of life—as Conchita had two years earlier—without having walked down the aisle to accept the sacrament of marriage. And it makes no matter that Conchita certainly doesn’t look her age—with skin as smooth as Indian pottery combined with a voluptuous figure that would knock the false teeth out of any mature (and eligible) man. But that’s the problem, you see. Too much fun, not enough pain. And now Conchita thinks she has fallen in love with a Mexican who can fly. ¡Ay Chihuahua!

So, you see, no one can find out about her novio’s penchant for flying. Period. Conchita’s good fortune cannot be tarnished by this slightly odd behavior. While keeping this secret, she will proudly introduce him to her comadres at tardeadas, quinceañeras, and funerals even if they have already recognized Moisés Rojo as Conchita’s recently widowed but still vigorous next-door neighbor. And people will, indeed, nod with approval because this woman (¡finalmente!) has found a solid, handsome, and age-appropriate gentleman who maybe—just maybe—will ask her to marry him. And perhaps—they will say—Conchita will come to her senses after all these years of dating charming but useless men and allow the Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church to bless their union in a proper Mexican wedding. Because in God’s eyes, it is never too late for sinners as long as they are still living and breathing and taking up space on this miraculous place we call Earth.

When Conchita finally broached the subject with Moisés—about his flying, not marriage—he held up his right hand, palm out to his new love, and corrected her: I do not fly, mi amor, he said softly. I levitate.

And what exactly is the difference? she asked.

Planes fly, he explained. Birds and mosquitoes and kites fly. People levitate.

Oh, said Conchita. That’s clear. But what should I tell people?

Moisés only shrugged. A few minutes later, when Conchita attempted to return to the topic, Moisés grabbed her shoulders and kissed her full on the mouth. Conchita surrendered to his taste, smell, and touch as if this were their first kiss. Moisés pulled back and looked into his novia’s eyes. Tell people whatever you wish, he said. To me it makes no difference.

And so it was: Conchita decided never to share her secret with anyone.

Rule 2 ~ Don’t Try to Understand How He Does It

OTHER THAN THE FLYING PART, Conchita found Moisés to be quite normal. He ate, slept, read the paper, and loved her as any ordinary man would. When Conchita asked him one day why she couldn’t fly unless she held his hand (in which case she would rise effortlessly from the Earth as if she were filled with helium), Moisés, of course, corrected her terminology (I levitate, I don’t fly) and then explained that after his wife died, he had fallen out of balance. So he took up yoga and transcendental meditation.

How did you learn of these things? asked Conchita.

I went online and typed in: OUT OF BALANCE, he said. I found many excellent websites and articles.

And? Conchita pressed.

And after much study, I became a disciple.

A disciple of what?

Of balance, mi amor, Moisés answered. Balance.

And if I studied yoga and transcendental meditation, ventured Conchita, I, too, could learn to fly?

Of course not, he said. I read nothing of levitation. It just happened one night as I sat in the lotus position while chanting my mantra.

Conchita skipped asking what a mantra was but nonetheless continued her cross-examination on the crucial issue at hand: Must you have moonlight to fly?

No, no, said Moisés, betraying a bit of impatience. This is not magic. It is pure physics.

I knew it! exclaimed Conchita. No magic, just magnetic fields, right?

At this, Moisés simply sniffed and reached for his cup of coffee. Conchita stood at her kitchen sink waiting for an answer to her question.

You make the richest coffee I’ve ever tasted, Moisés finally offered. What do you do to make it so delicious?

It’s my mother’s little secret, she said, pleased by the compliment but annoyed at the evasion.

Sensing Conchita’s conflicting emotions, Moisés said: Magnetic fields could certainly be at work.

Conchita smiled and refilled her lover’s cup with fresh coffee.

Rule 3 ~ Don’t Lie About It to Your Dead Mother

ON THE THIRD NIGHT they shared her bed, Conchita’s late mother, Belén, appeared to her daughter. Moisés snored softly, curled up like a milk-drowsed baby, while Conchita sat by his side, propped up on two pillows, surveying her new and quite delightful situation. And then, in a blink, there stood Belén at the foot of her bed dressed in the pretty floral print she’d been buried in, holding a cup of coffee and puffing on a fat hand-rolled cigarette.

Ay, mija, said Belén after she exhaled a large billow of white smoke. Another man?

Mamá, whispered Conchita. How long have you been watching?

Oh, mija, I saw the whole thing.

¡Ay Dios mío! exclaimed Conchita through tight lips. This is so embarrassing!

Don’t worry, mija, said Belén. I’m dead. Nothing embarrasses me. You ought to see what your sisters do.

Conchita was partially placated by this thought but she wondered if, in fact, her younger sisters really enjoyed themselves with their men and whether they were having more fun than she. But her mother interrupted such musings.

So, mija, your new man flies, eh?

I don’t know what you mean, Mamá, said Conchita as she crossed her arms and turned to gaze upon a slumbering Moisés.

Don’t lie to your mother, said Belén. The Fourth Commandment forbids it, as it is numbered by the Roman Catholic Church.

Silence.

It is useless anyway, reasoned Belén. I know all. Mothers always do.

Conchita knew that her mother spoke the truth.

So, otra vez, mija, I ask you: Does your new man fly?

If mothers know all, said Conchita with a sly smile, why do you ask?

Because mothers want their children to admit things, she scolded. Does your novio fly?

No, Mamá, he levitates, said Conchita as she turned to face her mother. Planes fly. And so do mosquitoes and birds and other things. But people levitate.

Ni modo, said Belén with a wave of her cigarette. It’s all the same. He’s up in the air like a plane or a bird or a mosquito or whatever. With that, Belén sipped her coffee and let out a little burp.

But his special talent doesn’t make him a bad person, Mamá, said Conchita, feeling a bit defensive.

You’re right, said Belén. Sabes qué, mija, before I met your papá, I dated a man who could do things with his mouth that were simply miraculous.

No, Mamá, I don’t need to hear this.

Oh, mija, that man, continued Belén, that man could make me fly!

Belén let out a little laugh as her mind wandered to ancient memories.

And Conchita let out a sigh.

His name was Francisco, said Belén after a few moments.

Conchita blinked. You mean the butcher?

Belén nodded, took another sip of coffee, and then puffed heartily on her fat cigarette.

At that moment, Moisés woke with a start. Did you say something? he asked without opening his eyes.

Belén blew a kiss to her daughter and disappeared.

No, mi cielo, said Conchita. Back to sleep; it was nothing.

Have you been smoking? asked Moisés as he sniffed the air and opened his eyes to a mere slit.

No, mi cielo, no, said Conchita as she pushed down her pillows and snuggled near her man. You know I don’t smoke.

Moisés closed his eyes and started to snore softly.

Rule 4 ~ Don’t Grow Weak in Your Resolve to Keep the Secret

EACH MORNING before 7:30 a.m., except on Sundays, Conchita asks Moisés to go back home. It’s not because she doesn’t appreciate the intimacy that only long, lazy hours in bed can bring. No. It’s because her sister Julieta drops by each morning at 7:30 a.m. sharp, Monday through Saturday, to end her power walk and have a little chat with her hermana. After sharing a little family time, Julieta walks home, showers, and meets her husband at their camera shop for another full day of keeping their fussy customers happy. Having Moisés leave before Julieta arrives is not for Julieta’s benefit. Not at all. Julieta knows that, throughout the years, her older sister has enjoyed almost countless men. And, being sisters, they have shared many naughty stories, though most of them came from Conchita, not Julieta. In reality, Conchita wanted to spare Moisés the embarrassment of having to socialize with Julieta after spending the night in Conchita’s warm, entertaining bed. He was a sensitive man who read books, enjoyed art and, most important, was still healing from his wife’s death, though he tried mightily to hide his grief from Conchita.

So Conchita would wake to her buzzing alarm clock at 6:00 a.m., slide herself on top of Moisés for a delicious bit of lovemaking, serve a wonderful breakfast of tamales de puerco and hot coffee along with the newspaper, and then direct her man out the front door. Moisés obliged without argument, subdued by love, food, and the morning news. He’d walk next door to his home, shower, and then meditate in his living room while Conchita and Julieta

Reviews for How to Date a Flying Mexican

[pomo58 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

How to Date a Flying Mexican by Daniel A Olivas is a fascinating collection of short stories that spans his writing career. There are no weak stories here, even the ones I liked less were still very good.The nature of a collection, whether stories or essays, even by a single author, is a certain amount of unevenness. That might not be the ideal word, it really is about which entries speak to a reader. In selecting the stories for this collection Olivas definitely chose well. Enough variety to appeal to most readers with at least some of the stories but also consistent throughout in bringing readers into the lives of his characters.His characters, and the situations they find themselves in, are entertaining while also offering ways of gaining perspective on how others experience life. I am talking less about a non-Latinx reader, though that certainly holds true. I am talking more about the basic human variations on how we engage and make sense of our world. Regardless of nationality or ethnicity, readers will find characters here that will remind them of people they have known.I would recommend this to any lover of the short story, there are stories that weave a spell from beginning to end, then there are ones that deliver a startling surprise with the last line.Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.